Fred Boyd: The prominent man you never heard of

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On Jan. 15 hundreds of people attended the funeral of local homeless man Freddy Boyd, triggering a discussion about mental health and homelessness in the city. This is Freddy’s story.

Freddy Boyd was a prominent member of this community. But you may never have heard his name.

He didn’t make donations to charity. No roads or hospital wings will be named after him. He didn’t hold public office.

Yet from a certain point of view he was as recognizable a figure as any mayor or local sports hero.

His name was unknown to many, but his face wasn’t. For people who lived and worked downtown, Boyd’s weather-beaten visage and powder white goatee were as familiar as a local landmark.

Boyd had neither a floor under his feet nor roof over his head. Yet even in the winter cold, this homeless man would give up his own coat to someone he felt needed it more than he did.

He suffered from schizophrenia and was prone to fits of uncontrollable rage. But in his best moments, he was kind to a fault.

He seemed an isolated nomad wandering between the offices of the social agencies that kept him alive. But Boyd had a loving family that never gave up trying to help him.

Frederick William Boyd, the prominent St. Catharines man you never heard of, died on Jan. 11 at age 64 from complications due to pneumonia he acquired from living on the street.

Hundreds of people packed the Patrick Darte funeral home on Court Street to say goodbye on Jan 15. Among the ranks of the grieving was Susan Vendetti of Start Me Up Niagara, Betty-Lou Souter of Community Care of St. Catharines and Thorold, and St. Catharines Mayor Walter Sendzik.

“He was a prominent member of this community. People saw him every day,” said Sendzik, who posted about Boyd’s death on social media so the community would know. “Yes, he was homeless, but he was still one of our own and he deserved to be remembered.”

Souter said Boyd was a fixture downtown — “he was a member of the Community Care family,” she said at the funeral — and his passing has drawn influential eyes to the ongoing issues of mental health and homelessness in the city.

“I can tell you that it got people talking about these issues,” Souter said. “So when you look at it like that, Freddy didn’t die in vain.”

For leaders like Sendzik and Souter, Boyd is a tragic illustration of the limits of a social system that struggles to cope with cases like his. They hope his life and his death will spur improvements to that system.

For Darlene Boyd-DeNapoli, though, the issue is personal.

Her brother is dead. He didn’t die on the streets where he lived, but in a hospital bed surrounded by family. And she hopes that in those moments he finally found a measure of peace that eluded him in life.

“I don’t know why he never told people, but he had a family who loved him,” she said.

Where most saw a homeless man, Boyd-DeNapoli saw a loving brother with a penchant for singing to her even when his mother grew annoyed and told him stop. Close your Eyes, by Edward Bear, was one he sang often, and Boyd-DeNapoli had it played at his funeral.

Boyd-DeNapoli said her brother was diagnosed with schizophrenia as a teenager. Treatment options were few in the 1970s. Boyd was institutionalized and received repeated sessions of electric-shock therapy.

“You have to think about One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. They just lined people up to be shocked,” Souter said. “You have to imagine what that would do to someone.”

The shocks did nothing to improve Boyd’s mental health. Although he never spoke of it, Boyd-DeNapoli said her brother’s deep aversion for hospitals and doctors probably stemmed from those days. Getting him to go for medical help was a challenge until he was so ill he couldn’t protest.

His schizophrenia made his home life nearly impossible. Violent, irrational outbursts were too difficult for his mother to cope with, said Boyd-DeNapoli.

When mental health treatment was de-institutionalized 40 years ago, Boyd was among patients released to the streets. His condition meant he wasn’t able to hold a job or rent an apartment.

The system, Souter said, isn’t designed to care for and house people in his condition. So Boyd ended up a denizen of the streets. And he isn’t the only one.

“Freddy had his ways of getting by,” said Souter. “He would come here to see us. All he ever wanted was chocolate pudding and Shredded Wheat. He would often go to Start Me Up. So he had his network.”

Even so, life on the street takes its toll. Boyd would panhandle for money, but would often be assaulted and robbed. And he would spend too many nights exposed to the elements.

His siblings were unable to take him because his of outbursts.

Boyd-DeNapoli said it hurts to say it, but she didn’t want her children exposed to the worst of Boyd’s behaviour.

They developed a system to stay in contact. Boyd would call her to tell her where he was, and she would meet him. She would bring him clothes or cigarettes and check up on his health.

He would often apologize after acting out, she said. He would remember the outbursts — the ugly language and yelling — but had no means to control them.

He never talked about his mental health, but once attempted to write about it.

The only scrap of insight to how Boyd saw the world comes from five lines of an unfinished poem titled Solitary, written in pencil.